Archive of Our Own

He had no idea, when he woke up that morning, just how much his life would change that day.

Marius grew up the illegitimate yet favoured son of a Roman citizen, the proud governor of the African territory in which they resided. Marius liked it here, because in his father’s grand home he had an indulgent library full of all sorts of books all to himself. He would read, and scribble his own ideas on pieces of parchment, and for twenty years he enjoyed a peaceful, pampered life.

Until war came to disrupt his father’s rule.

The lands the man had claimed for Rome bordered and partially encompassed the territory of a clan of gnolls, a barbarian race of hyena people (Marius shuddered to think of them and their ignorant ways), who up until now had left them in peace, but a new queen had come to power within their community, and she wanted the humans out of her way.

And when Marius’s father had sent her ambassadors away empty-handed, she turned to other means of achieving her goal.

Marius’s father had not been prepared for war.

The gnoll army decimated the Romans’ defences, seemingly effortlessly, wounding not only their bodies but also their pride – and no one’s pride more than that of Marius’s father. And they were all alone – the gnolls had crept around the Romans’ holdings and cut them off before they attacked from the other end, so that the Romans found themselves unable to send for backup. The gnolls advanced so far, and wiped out soldiers and civilians alike so thoroughly, that the governor had no choice but to surrender, no matter how much it pained him to give such orders, to bow to the will of a pack of savage beasts. So that is how Marius found himself lined up with his brothers and a series of generals belonging to both sides of the conflict all gathered in his father’s office, hands tied behind his back. He had been sipping wine in his library when two enemy soldiers had burst in upon orders to round up all of the governor’s children, and now here he stood, trying to calm the pace of his heart.

It seemed the negotiations had already begun by the time they had found him and brought him in, and the gnoll who stood opposite his father stopped speaking as he entered, dark brown eyes with a human spark looking him over from head to toe and back again. She was tall, as all gnolls, stooping slightly under a roof not made for beings of her stature, armour seeming more decorative than practical, an ostentatious display of wealth and power, draped in resplendent and brightly-coloured fabrics, feathers, jewels, the muscles of her bare arms rippling underneath a layer of lush black and brown fur. She turned to whom Marius assumed to be her top generals or advisors and murmured, “I hope you don’t mind if I veer slightly off-script for a moment.”

One of them inclined her head and said, “Whatever you think is best, Your Majesty.”

Your Majesty. So she was their queen.

She turned to the governor and smiled, an awful smile full of sharp teeth, “I have a perhaps a bit unorthodox request for you.”

He stared her down stubbornly, though there was no mistaking the fear in his eyes. “And what might that be?”

“You know my army is more powerful than yours,” she said, pacing slowly, inching closer to the line of captive brothers. “I didn’t exactly intend to wipe you out completely, just get you to leave like I had wanted, though I can certainly continue to do as I have been doing. But I will stop this bloodshed and promise to leave you alone, minus the land that is rightfully mine, if you give me just one thing of yours . . . ”

“What thing, Your Majesty?”

She stopped in front of Marius and curled a clawed hand as big as his face under his chin. “I think your boy would make an excellent slave.”

Marius’s eyes widened, but he dared make no sound, no movement, pursing his lips.

“That’s preposterous,” the governor scoffed. “You can’t be serious. Name anything else, I won’t give you any of my children.”

“You will,” the queen tightened her hold on Marius’s chin, though she turned to look at his father. Her claws sent tiny shocks of pain radiating through his jaw. “You will or we don’t have an agreement. I want to take him back to my palace with me as my slave, and if you are not complicit in this I will keep my army going until you have nothing left, and I will make you watch as I burn every last Roman home to the ground, watch as I kill every one of your generals, your slaves, your family, your friends, and then once you have watched yourself lose everything you hold dear I will kill you, too, and it will not be a quick or a painless death. And in the end, the boy will still be mine, and there will be nobody to stand in my way. So I would suggest you do not resist me.”

Silence stretched on, thick and tense, then finally the governor deflated, lowered his eyes from her unflinching, severe gaze, and said, defeated, “All right. You win. He’s yours.”

Marius scoffed, taken aback. “Father!”

“Don’t fight me on this, boy!” he barked, then softened, sad, wounded, “Don’t fight her, please. It’s not worth what will happen to you, to me, to all of us.”

“But – ” but Marius knew there was no use. He knew that the queen had the capacity to make good on her threat, and that he would have so much innocent blood on his hands if he did not submit to her. Submit. The word left a bad taste in his mouth, even to think it.

“He is your slave,” the old man sighed. “Is that your only condition?”

“The negotiations are not over, no,” said the queen, and she walked over to his desk, pulled out his chair, and plopped herself down in it with the confidence of someone who knows that they hold all the power, beckoning to Marius with her finger. “Slave. Come here.”

One of the gnoll soldiers pushed him, and he stumbled toward her, heart rattling in his chest with a fury, making his entire body pulse with anticipation. He stood before her, not daring to look her in the face, and she said, “Kneel.”

So he did, legs trembling. It was a little difficult with his hands stuck behind him.

He gasped as she grabbed him roughly, pulling him closer to her, between her open legs, his chin right up against the edge of the chair. “Open your mouth,” said she, and his eyes widened with a little whimper, but he did not obey, even as cold adrenaline sank into his stomach. With a strange, simultaneous mixture of panic and mute, subdued horror, he watched as something appeared out of its hiding place in the soft fur of her belly, down past the battle skirts which she lifted up to reveal it, lowering straight toward his face – something that looked suspiciously like a cock. “I said,” she growled. “Open your mouth,” and she yanked him by his hair to punctuate the word; he gasped reflexively at the pain, and she was swift to take advantage of this before he could get control of his face again. He jerked uselessly, held in place by her large hand on the back of his head as he gagged around her, tears springing to his eyes, tears of surprise, tears of pain, tears of absolute mortification. He heard his father give a small gasp, clearly not having foreseen this development any more than Marius himself had.

She did not allow him to adjust. She did not move, nor did she make any indication that she wanted him to do anything but sit there. So he did just that, trying in vain to calm his heart and his mind, to breathe fully and normally through his nose, as he knelt, trembling, before her, tears streaming involuntarily down his face. She pat his head softly and murmured, “That’s a good boy,” and a shudder passed through him, a fresh shock of adrenaline. Absolutely mortifying, having to submit himself to this barbarian, this beast in any way, but especially like this, and in front of everyone, in front of his family, his father! He could hardly stand it, and yet he knew his strength would be no match for hers if he tried to fight, that he stood no chance. What other choice did he have but to sit and take whatever she decided to do to him? At least she had allowed him to keep his clothes on – he didn’t know if he could bear it otherwise, being that exposed. He was vulnerable enough, humiliated enough as it was, panic closing his already obstructed throat as a dribble of drool began to gather at the corner of his mouth. He was ashamed enough at his tears, such an obnoxious display of emotion, so improper, so childish, as his throat constricted around her, blood rushing far too loudly in his head.

“Now,” she said casually, stroking his hair, swirling her claws against his scalp in a way that made all the little hairs on his arms and the back of his neck raise up and his skin crawl. “About those lands you tried to steal from me. I want them back. I want your promise that no Roman soldier or settler will ever set foot on my territory again.”

So this was it. She expected him to sit still with her cock down his throat in front of everybody while she negotiated his father’s surrender as if Marius was not even there between her legs. He closed his eyes, as if that could make it all go away, feeling the traitorous tears still squeezing out and rolling down his cheeks, big fat ugly tears whose salt stung his cracking lips. Hours, it seemed, he had to hold this position, shame burning almost unbearably hot all over, whole body trembling with the effort and the discomfort of his task. Finally they had finished, after a seeming eternity, papers drawn up and signed by both parties to polite applause, but still she did not free him. She looked down at him with a cruel smile, and he looked up at her through his tears, and cold adrenaline made his heart and lungs protest once more as she pinched his nose, panic seeping into him as he tried in vain to breathe, no way to get the air in, pulling, pulling at nothing, his head rushing, he –

He faded like static into unconsciousness.

When Marius next opened his eyes, he was curled up on the queen’s lap, his head on her shoulder as she stroked his hair, and they were moving – carried on a litter by a team of grunting gnolls, swaying slightly with every step. When his senses returned, he tensed up with a gasp, and she shushed him, adjusting her grip. His entire ass fit into the palm of her hand, and he whimpered despite himself, squirming to show his discomfort even though he knew it was no use. “Now, now, it’s all right, baby, don’t fight me,” she rubbed his back gently, and he swallowed, reaching a hand up to his throat, which stung with every frightened breath; he still tasted of her, and it made him want to gag. She shushed him again, and he felt something warm and wet on the top of his head – her tongue, he realised, licking him, like a cat, or maybe like a kiss. At some point he had started trembling again, and he shut his eyes tight and covered his face with his hands, feeling a little like he might be sick.

What a blessed relief it was when they arrived at her camp and she let go of him, left him to his own devices for those few precious seconds before she grabbed him by the arm and marched him into her tent. As he regained his bearings, she said as she began to remove her armour, “Take off your clothes.”

His breath caught in his throat, and he stood frozen in place until her voice snapped him back into himself. “Slave. I won’t ask you again.”

He was too proud to beg her to leave him be.

Swallowing the lump in his throat and working to get his heartbeat under control, Marius reached reluctantly to remove the cloth preserving his dignity, face flushed red as he became exposed. Nowhere to hide now, and he did not like that one bit.

Her lips curled into a grin as she took the sight of him in, and she grabbed his face with her big hands and licked into his mouth, silencing his cries of protest with a hand wrapped delicately around his throat – not tight enough to do any damage, just a warning, a reminder of her power over him. He pushed at her chest, though he knew it wouldn’t accomplish anything, and she squeezed ever so slightly, saying against his lips, “Behave, pet.”

“No,” he blubbered, tears rising up forcefully and making his whole face hot. He was angry. Angry at this beast for waging a war against his people, angry at her for what she had asked of him, angry at his father for allowing it, angry that he could not defend himself from her advances, angry that it made him angry. He screamed and beat his fists against her, and she stood and took it, not even flinching, and when he paused to catch his breath she raised one eyebrow and asked, “Is your little tantrum over with?”

He just stared at her, balling his fists so hard he thought he might draw blood, not caring at all about the sting and the pulse in his hands – just one more little thing, only another drop in the sea of pain in which he was currently treading water. So she leaned in, got right in his face, and snarled, showing off all her sharp teeth; he gasped and backed up a step, righteous composure forgotten entirely in such close proximity to her fangs. “You will speak when spoken to, slave. Am I understood?”

He lowered his eyes with great effort, adrenaline worsening his nausea as he pushed out, “Yes.”

“What was that?”

“Yes,” he said louder.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

She shook her head and sighed. “Now, we’re going to have to work on that tone. Get on the bed.”

He felt cold all over, but he walked over and began to lay down.

“Not like that. Bend over the side. And spread your legs.”

So he obeyed, heart pounding, and waited in anticipation of her touch, tensed, listened to the sound of her rustling around the room, then something dug into the flesh of his thigh with a sharp sting and a loud crack, sending pain shooting up his body so hard his vision flashed white. He screamed and clutched onto the sheets as if for dear life, eyes wide, gasping for breath. “Smarts, doesn’t it?” he could hear her smirk. “Be a good boy and I won’t have to do this often,” snap; scream. “Apologise.”

“For what?”

“Wrong answer,” she whipped him again. “For your disrespect. Apologise.”

He hesitated just long enough that she brought the switch down again, thrice this time, in quick succession, and he tasted blood. “I’m sorry,” he gasped.

Snap. “Pardon?”

He sobbed. “I’m sorry, Y-Your Majesty.”

“Better,” she said, though she hit him one more time just for good measure, making him jump. “So, pet, my advisors tell me your father sired you out of wedlock, with a slave from a faraway land.”

“Yes,” he trembled, then added, almost too late, “Your Majesty.”

“And they tell me you never knew her. That she died birthing you.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“A shame. And that’s a bit of a mouthful, don’t you think, saying Your Majesty every time? How about you call me Mommy instead?”

His ass throbbed. He felt like he was drowning, and he couldn’t catch his breath between his little sobs. When he said nothing, she brought the switch down against him once more. “Well?”

He felt like throwing up. He was in so much pain, physical and emotional, he could hardly speak. “If you wish . . . Mommy.”

“That’s my good boy,” she said, patting him on the head, and he clenched his jaw but made no move to pull away from her, eyes burning with impotent indignation. He trembled uncontrollably, fearing that he wouldn’t be able to hold himself up for much longer. She retreated, and he heard her footsteps taking her to the other side of the bed, but when she laid down, she was . . . human?

“Come here, boy,” she said as she lounged with her legs casually spread, indicating her breasts, squishing one in her hand. He took a deep breath and hauled himself fully onto the bed, pausing for a minute to take her in before he laid himself down on top of her, settled between her legs. She was beautiful, he had to admit, with the face of a goddess, dazzling dark eyes, olive complexion, brown hair spread in shining waves all over the pillows. Her arms and legs were toned and shapely, waist small, breasts full, and she squeezed one again, putting her other hand on the back of his head and guiding him to it, to her nipple. Not knowing what else to do, he took it into his mouth and began to suck on it softly, and she smiled and ran her hands down his bare back, sighing, “Yes. Good boy. Just like that, baby.”

His jaw ached terribly from having her cock in his mouth for so long earlier, but he forced himself to continue on anyway, the bleeding lash marks on his thighs making him think better of protesting or trying to turn away. She tasted like sweat and musk and leather and something vaguely sweet, and he felt her flesh softening around him, blood pulsing underneath his tongue. She decided at some point that she had had enough on the one side, and switched him to her other tit, and he choked on his tears as he pushed through the pain in his jaw, weakening him to the point of forcing his movements to become more sluggish. The scent of her, vaguely herbal, made his head swim, all too aware of all the places their bodies touched, the soft squish of her inner thighs pressed tight against his waist, the rake of her nails down his back light enough to make him shiver, the soft hair on her stomach rubbing against his as she breathed. After a while a voice came from the entrance to the tent: “Queen Pandora? I was sent to bring you these.”

“Come in,” the queen called (so Pandora was her name), and instructed the boy to set the box he held down on the stand next to the bed. When they were alone again, she said, “You may stop now,” and he broke away with a small gasp, wiping the drool from his chin. Embarrassing. “But don’t get comfortable yet; we’re not done here.”

He whimpered as she resituated herself, pulling his head down between her legs. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’re hard, darling. You won’t get away so easily.”

Cheeks burning with shame at the betrayal of his body, he closed his eyes and, upon her urging, began to lap softly at her folds, curly brown pubic hair tickling at his forehead as she told him what to do. He plunged his tongue into her hole, the tang of her overwhelming his senses, like the rest of her but stronger, something metallic over the sweetness, and earthy almost like walnuts, but bitter. The taste and scent of her filled his mouth and nose, seeping into his lungs, enveloping him just as surely as her hands in his hair kept him in place right where she wanted him, moving him around as she pleased, and he lapped at her like a kitten, a shock coursing through him with every “good boy” that rose from her lips, until she arched off of the bed and convulsed slightly, clenching around his tongue, then she laid back to catch her breath as he sat up.

He was so afraid and so humiliated and so helpless that he had forgotten to be angry. He watched her flushed breasts bounce up and down as she panted and he felt so weary suddenly, so sad, the reality of what he had just done sinking in – and to a barbarian, a beast. She took note of his face and asked as she stroked her belly lazily, “What’s wrong, pet?”

He swayed, head buzzing, feeling outside of his own body as he stumbled off of the bed and toward the basin of water in the corner, his voice far away as he said, “I-I don’t feel very well.” He splashed some water in his face, then he heaved violently, whole body constricting, and sour vomit spewed out of his mouth, making him choke for the umpteenth time that day. Then he collapsed onto the floor, feeling marginally better, and he heard Pandora say, “Oh, dear.”

Marius sniffled, rinsed his mouth out with water from the jug beside the wash bin, wiped himself off, and stood back up, holding onto the wooden washbasin stand for support as his legs trembled. Suddenly he became aware of the pulsating need between his legs, realising with horror that throughout all of this he was still hard, and he whimpered. He could do nothing but stare at it.

“Come here, pet,” said the queen, and he staggered back toward her. He handed her the box the boy had brought in earlier, then got on the bed on all fours just like she asked. Her hands were cold where she massaged the last of the soreness out of his ass, and while she did this she said, “So tell me, pet, have you ever been with a man before?”

The question caught him off guard. “N-no – Mommy.”

“Hmm,” she said. “Then this will take some work.”

“What will – ah!” he tensed up as she prodded at his hole, fingers slick with some sort of oil – presumably what was in the box – and she pushed herself in. It felt strange, wrong, and he whimpered. Not him! Please, anything else, not this humiliation!

“Shh,” she stroked his ass with her other hand. “You’re all right, pet, Mommy’s gonna take care of you. I don’t wanna hurt you. So we’ll take it slow.” She dripped some more oil around his hole, moving her finger in a small circular motion to spread it around, then pushed in just a little bit further, smiling at his gasp. Soon she had gotten her first finger all the way in, lazily sliding it in and out, and when she pushed down on the pull-out he bit back a moan. “Did I find it?” she laughed slightly, pushing down again, and she got her answer when he moaned again, shuddering slightly. She ran over that spot a few more times, massaging the jut of his pelvic bone with her other hand, and the next thing he knew he had come all over the sheets, cheeks hot, pleasure wracking his entire body. “That’s it,” she cooed. “Now clean up the mess you made.”

He reached for a rag as she pulled out of him, but she slapped him lightly on the wrist. “Not like that. With your mouth.”

So, eyes burning, lower lip trembling, he allowed her to bend him down to the wet spot with a hand on the back of his head, and he sucked his own spend out of the blanket while she pet his hair and told him how good he was for her.

She left him alone after that, getting dressed and telling him to stay put while she took care of some business. He simply curled onto his side, hugged the pillow, and wept. When a servant came in to give him his dinner, he still had not moved, so he sat up slowly, wiped his eyes, and, wrapping the blanket around himself like a robe for privacy, sat down in a chair and ate his food, what little of it he could stomach. He fell asleep before she got back, and she did not wake him up (and for that he was grateful), but what a shock it was to wake up in a strange place with the feel of someone’s arms around him, when he was used to sleeping alone. Adrenaline jump-started his entire system before he had had the time to remember all that had transpired the day before, and he rubbed his eyes, working to slow the racing of his heart. A small strip of sunlight filtered onto the ground through the flap in the tent, and from outside he could hear the sounds of gnolls walking around, speaking to each other, he could smell food cooking and smoke from a fire. Pandora stirred with a small groan, and he turned, sat up in bed. She grabbed his leg and pressed a sleepy kiss to his skin with a murmured “Good morning,” and he inched out of her grasp, going over to the washbasin (whose water had been changed since his accident yesterday) and cleaning his face.

That day they travelled some, carried on a litter just like yesterday, though this time she had him sit on the base of the litter between her legs rather than on the throne with her. He considered running, but he figured that even if he could safely make the jump onto the ground all the way from here, he probably would not get very far before the gnolls caught up to him and dragged him back, likely bound for good measure, and so he did not try it. It wasn’t worth the risk, and even if he had to sit at a monster’s feet and endure her hands in his hair he figured he would rather not have to be tied up if he could help it. Although he found that playing these fantasies of escape in his head helped him to pass the time well enough, even if he could never act them out.

When the sun had begun to dip below the horizon, they set up camp for the night, and after dinner the queen led Marius again into her tent and, just like last time, instructed him to take off his clothes for her. He very nearly considered not doing it, and while he stood there deliberating she slapped him so hard across the mouth that his vision flashed red and reprimanded him for his disobedience, so, face stinging from pain and from shame, he obliged her once more, determined this time not to cry no matter how cruel she got. It was one small victory he could still claim over her, to not let her win in that regard, to not allow her to see and hear proof of how she had broken him.

How he hated the feel of those great hulking hands roving so freely over him, soft paw-like pads rustling his short body hairs, how he hated the feel of her warm tongue pushing past his lips, pushing back into his mouth, so much smaller than hers, so far that he choked on it. His neck began to ache from the angle, of tilting his head up to meet hers, until finally she grabbed him by the thighs, claws digging into his flesh, and hoisted him up against her torso; he ran his fingers through the soft, thick fur on her shoulders, unsure of what else to do with his trembling hands. He grabbed fistfuls of it and used it to steady himself and she hardly seemed to mind, humming contentedly into him, the sound vibrating all the way down his throat and into his chest.

He screwed his eyes shut as she threw him onto the bed, face-first, pressing him into the mattress with a hand the size of his head. He felt something poking at his behind – her cock – and tensed up with a wide-eyed gasp, but she simply rubbed herself against his cheeks, panting in his ear. “Oh, baby, you have just the cutest little ass,” she licked the back of his neck. “I can’t wait to ruin you.”

He swallowed, barely managing to hide a fearful little whine, and she laughed. “I wanna fuck you so bad, baby,” her breath was hot against the side of his face as she continued to rut between his legs, rock-hard and pulsing with pleasant heat. “I can hardly stand it. What if I just . . . ” she poked again at his hole, and he tensed up further, trembling, and before he could stop himself he whimpered, “No,”

“I could take you right now,” she squeezed his arms, pumping herself against his taint and pausing to moan. “You wouldn’t be able to stop me. You would feel so good, so tight, your little screams as I ripped you open would be positively adorable.”

He wouldn’t cry. He told himself he wouldn’t cry. “No,” he could barely manage a whisper, panting against the mattress, eyes wide.

“You don’t want it?” she licked the back of his neck again. “Beg.”

“Please,” he gasped, squirming underneath her.

She quickened the pace of her thrusting. “Please what, pet?”

“Please don’t,”

She licked him again, pushed up toward his hole.

“Please,” he couldn’t keep the desperation, the panic out of his voice; he grasped uselessly at the sheets. “Oh gods, please don’t fuck me, Mommy, don’t hurt me, please,”

She bit the back of his neck to muffle her cry as hot cum splashed all over his ass and thighs, and then she rolled off of him to allow him to catch his breath; he dared not move a muscle. When she touched him again, her hands were human, and she gathered her still-warm seed from his skin and pushed it into his hole. He took a hissing breath in and balled his fists, but spread his legs further upon her urging, allowing her to lift his ass up into the air as she plunged in up to the second knuckle, grabbing his hardening cock with the other hand. He already noticed a change compared to yesterday, a little bit more give, his body making way for her just a little bit more easily, and he sniffled, failing to bite back a moan as she pressed on that one spot. God, he hated it. He hated how his body loved it. Degrading him like this, putting her hands all over him, inside him. It wasn’t fair.

They repeated a variation of this process – working him open with fingers, hers or his depending on her mood, getting further a little bit at a time – two, sometimes even three times a day, in the three months or so that it took them to travel back to Queen Pandora’s palace all the way on the opposite side of the territory from where the offending Roman encampment sat – for they went by foot, slow going, making stops along the way to pick up soldiers, clear Romans out, conduct business, visit with the gnolls whose settlements they stayed in. By the time they made it back, Marius was able to take the queen’s five fingers, and she determined that he was finally ready for her.

Pandora’s rooms in the palace were magnificent, he found no other word for it. High ceilings, glittering stone, rich and colourful fabrics, imported peacocks strutting about – not even in his father’s house did Marius ever conceive of being surrounded by such finery. All cleaned up and prepared for her arrival, the bedchamber practically sparkled. A row of jars of various oils and ointments sat on a stand by her bed, along with a tray of bread and cheese and meat, and she smiled. Plopping herself down in a gilded chair, she said, “Come, boy, sit on my lap.”

What choice did he have but to obey? She had done away with his Roman clothes and dressed him in barbarian garb, in a mockery, really, of what the male gnolls around him wore, and his chest and most of his legs were exposed, so that he could feel her body against his, fur soft and smooth, more comforting than he would have liked it to be.

She picked up a piece of meat and held it up to his lips; he opened his mouth obediently, clenching his fists as she cooed and pet his hair. It was seasoned well, he had to admit, and paired nicely with the piece of cheese she pushed past his lips. She alternated between feeding him and herself, and with the other hand she stroked his hair or his cheek or his bare back, and he trembled a bit but allowed her to do so, tears of anger and shame stinging at the backs of his eyes as his cock stirred slightly; he curled in on himself tighter, hugging his own arms.

When they had finished off the little tray of snacks, Pandora repositioned her grip on Marius, curling a large clawed hand around his ass, and he bit back a whimper, chiding himself for letting such a sound escape. Her fur was so soft, though, and so warm, and he couldn’t help but be lulled by the gentle buzz of her voice in her chest, her gentle rocking. It felt almost like the embrace of a mother. Like the mother he never knew.

She brought his head up to face her and kissed him sweetly, lapping the spices from the meat out of his mouth, and he tensed up but sat himself still, focusing on holding his lips apart for her. He blushed to realise that he didn’t entirely find it unpleasant, the scrape of her tongue against his, the tease of claws against his scalp. He braced his hands against her chest, threading his fingers through her fur, and she moaned softly into him, squeezing his ass a little tighter. She was very soft, and it felt nice to run his hands through the fur, he had to admit.

“Come, darling,” she said against his lips, hoisting him more fully into her arms as she stood up, then laid him down on the bed. She passed one of the jars of oil over to him and leaned over and said right in his ear, “Why don’t you get yourself ready for me?”

He whimpered despite himself, and she just laughed and pat his stomach softly, pulling his garments away. He gasped in protest, cold adrenaline shocking his system, but she was too strong, a hand pressing against him, spanning his entire lower torso. He had never felt so small, and tears stung at the back of his eyes; he clenched his jaw and his fists, swallowing the urge. He must keep ahold of himself, he couldn’t lose his composure. Her breath was hot against the side of his face. “Come on, pet. I won’t ask you again.”

So he reached, entire body trembling, for the oil, shame stinging at his cheeks.

He closed his eyes, as if that could make it all go away, screwed them shut tight and tried to relax with a slow exhale as he pushed into himself. “Good boy,” Pandora crooned, and something sour curled up in his gut, making him clench his jaw even further. “Your little hole is so cute,” she murmured, and it took everything in him not to call her a despicable beast to her face as she pinched one of his ass cheeks between her claws then massaged over the red spot with the pad of her finger, all while encouraging him to fuck his fingers further into himself. He could feel the way the anger, the shame burned brilliant red in his face, in his ears, as he bit his lip and held his breath to avoid making a truly humiliating and pathetic little sound. He could hardly abide this, and yet he saw no escape. He pretended he couldn’t hear the disgusting squelching noises coming from his behind, pretended he couldn’t feel the weight of her paw-hand on his head. Finally she had had enough, felt that he was ready, and she pushed his hand away and slid herself in to replace his fingers.

His eyes snapped open with a gasp, back arching up off of the bed and hands gripping the sheets, heart rattling furiously in his chest in protest against the stretch he felt. God. He thought her fingers were bad enough, this – he struggled to breathe. Blood rushed heavy all over, a dull vibration in his skull, making his head swim; his vision blurred with tears. She went slow, cooing and petting his hair and telling him what a good boy he was, palming at his stomach, his cock, and he bit back little whimpers, trembling all over, after all this preparation still not mentally ready for the size of it, the way she stretched him open agonisingly, like she was peeling him apart from the inside out. Leaning over him like this, pressing him into the sheets, she positively dwarfed him, blocking out all the light, everything but herself; Marius had never in his life felt so small, and his composure fell to shambles with a small sob, thinking, I want to go home.

“You feel so good, baby,” she breathed into his ear, lapping at the shell of it softly, at his tears (when had he begun to weep?), and he let out a strange groan like a pained animal, drawn out and rumbling weakly in his chest, accented by her thrusts. She shushed him, pet his hair, and he closed his eyes again, squeezing them tight as if he could keep his tears inside that way, trying and failing to stop his lower lip from wobbling. “You’re just so cute,” she laughed, licking him on the mouth, and he hissed through his teeth, fingers gone numb from clutching the sheets. Not him. This couldn’t be happening to him. He could hardly believe that he was sitting here and allowing himself to be degraded in such a way, and without even a fight. He felt a slight sick feeling in his stomach. His heart felt about ready to explode, sending shocks pulsating through his entire body, throbbing in his face, in his cock. How humiliating. The adrenaline mingled with, despite himself, something vaguely pleasant, washing a warmth over him in waves, in time with the beating of his heart, in time with her deliberate thrusts, slow, to savour the way his pulse embraced her hardness. She moaned, panting right in his ear, and his legs began to tremble. He felt sort of like he had just had a large meal, one where he had overindulged slightly – he felt full, impossibly so, to the brim, so that he felt it all the way in his throat.

Pandora grabbed onto his shoulders and rolled, and Marius gasped, eyes flying open to see the queen beneath him now; his chest heaved, and he squirmed, the new angle somehow pushing her even deeper, pressing into sensitive nerves he had no idea he even possessed and making it burn in his face. Her large hands steadied him and held him in place, obscuring almost all of his ribcage as he straddled her, legs spread to the point of slight discomfort. The heat radiating off of her was so intense, permeating his entire core, and his whole body buzzed, overwhelmed by all of her. “That’s it, pet,” she smiled as he blinked furiously, a bit short of breath herself, and brought one hand down to fondle his ass, to feel the stretch of his hole around her cock. “I want you to fuck yourself on me.”

He didn’t like this. Sitting up like this, he felt so exposed. Taking a few breaths to steady himself, he pushed past his trembling and braced himself, hands on the soft fur of her belly, for the movement.

He went slow, slower than she had gone, but she didn’t seem to mind. She just called him a good boy for the umpteenth time since his enslavement and took his cock in her other hand, more or less the thickness of her finger, running the soft pad of her thumb over his head, pulling back the foreskin. Now he really felt small. It sent a jolt through his whole body that finally made its way bubbling up his throat and came out as a whimpering moan, despite himself, and if it was at all possible he got even redder in the face. “That’s it, baby, it’s okay,” she grunted, thrusting her hips upward into him a little bit so that his mouth gaped open soundlessly like a fish. “Oh, you’re just so cute. You look so adorable all stretched around my cock like this.”

He closed his eyes and turned his face away, swallowing down another wave of tears. His thighs burned, but he kept going, as much as he could manage, breathing deeply, stuttering every time she administered a real decisive stroke to his own cock. Eventually she grabbed ahold of his hips with both hands, digging her claws into his flesh, and held him down right flush against her, his core aching with the strain, and she gave a loud cry as her cock twitched and something warm and wet spread inside him.

He followed soon after, covering his face and biting back his moan as he came all over the backs of her fingers.

Without a word, she scooped him up and carried him into an adjacent chamber, where a tub sat filled with steaming water; he whimpered into her fur, disgusted and humiliated to feel the way her spend dribbled out of his aching hole.

She put him down, and he grasped the edge of the tub to steady himself, then stepped over and into the basin, thigh muscles screaming in protest and his hole burning. He sank down up to his nipples, and soon she joined him, in her human guise once more. The tub easily could have held maybe three more people, but she sidled right up next to him with a dark smile, running one knuckle along his cheekbone softly. He noticed suddenly a bit of tiredness in her face, in her eyes, faint lines around her mouth and on her forehead, that he hadn’t paid attention to before. How old was she, exactly? Surely she was older than he was, but by how much? Was she old enough to be his mother, or not quite? Reaching over the edge of the tub, she produced soap and a rag, then kissed him quickly and said, “Why don’t you clean me off, baby?”

He blanched, looking at her incredulously, and after she repeated herself, sterner this time, he swallowed and took the things from her hesitantly. “Go on,” she squeezed his knee, and he sighed, lathering up some soap and pressing the rag to her outstretched arm, scrubbing gently. “Yes, good,” she smiled, and he worked his way up her arm, cleaning her shoulder, throat, other arm, her chest, stomach, back, both of her legs, and then she turned his face toward her with his foot, saying, “Now give Mama a kiss.”

He leaned forward, but she stopped him with her foot, raising an eyebrow expectantly. “Oh.” He swallowed and reached his shaking hands up to hold her leg and bring it up to his mouth, pressing a quick little kiss to her dimpled inner ankle. She tsked, “Now, now, you can do better than that, darling, don’t you think?” so he kissed her again, pressing his lips to her ankle and holding it there. “A real kiss,” she rolled her eyes, and he gave a trembling sigh, eyes screwed shut tight as he brought her foot to his lips once more, swirling his tongue around the jut of her ankle bone and mouthing wetly at her skin until she said, “Good boy, now that’s more like it.”

He couldn’t believe it. Humbling himself before this creature – kissing her feet! Shame burned in his stomach – shame, and something else; her eyes wandered down below the water line, and she grinned. “Oh, you liked that, did you, pet?” She laughed, lowering her foot back into the water with a splash and spreading her toes across his growing erection. He tensed up, hissed, scrambled backward a bit, but he was already so close to the edge, and his back hit the wall. She stood up, caging him in, and dug her heel in right at the base of his cock, eliciting a pathetic little whine from his lips. She smirked and braced herself on the lip of the tub, rubbing her pubes into his nose, rough and with a hint of her soap. “Go on. Put that pretty mouth of yours to use, pet,” she said, and he sighed in defeat, deflating, and let the scent and the taste of her fill him, bath water streaming from her bush and dribbling down his chin as he sucked softly at her folds, tasting faintly of suds on top of her usual notes. While he attended to her pussy, she ran her foot along his cock, and he hated the way it made him shiver with a thrill, the way he throbbed, hot, under her ministrations. He saw her through, but she managed to stop just before he came, then she sank down into his lap and took him in like it was nothing, kissing her own juices out of his mouth, one hand around his throat, the other around his wrist, holding his hand to her tit as she rode him. She was oh so warm inside, and he came in almost no time at all; she kissed him and pet his hair, and then they went on with their bath as if nothing had happened.

He fell asleep that night as he had many other nights, with Pandora nestled against his back, one leg thrown over his hip.

Marius blinked the light from the morning sun out of his eyes, holding his hand up to shield himself from the brightness of it. As he sat up, he used his other hand to pull the blanket up to cover his chest, asking, “Who’s there? What time is it?” 

He remembered waking up when Pandora did, when the light was grey, waking up to the feel of her shifting at his back, adjusting her position. She had not gone back to her human form that night, and her fur rubbed pleasantly against his bare back; a deep morning chill permeated the large room, but she was warm as always, and he turned onto his other side sleepily, snuggling into her chest. He had grown to not mind the feel of her claws on his scalp, and he took a deep breath, the sweet earthy scent of her enveloping him as surely as her arms held him in an embrace. He heard her say something about having to greet a visiting emissary or something like that, but he didn’t really hear her, just the soft vibrations of her speech buzzing in his body. He drifted off like that, fingers curled in her fur, and when he next woke up to the curtains being opened on him she was gone and he was alone in the great big bed.

The servant who had pulled back the curtain said, “The queen told me to wake you up. She requires your presence.”

“Must I go now? I’m hungry.” And he was; breakfast sounded great right about now.

“I’m sorry, she wants you now. Get ready as quickly as you are able, I will be waiting for you outside the door.”

As soon as he exited, Marius stumbled out of bed, groaning at the stiff ache in his legs from all he had done last night, and cleaned his face in the washbasin. Then he fixed his hair and got dressed, and the servant led him to the queen. His queen, now.

She smiled when she saw him, and bade the other servants to leave the room, so it was only him standing before her with his head bowed. “Take off your clothes, you’re really much prettier without them,” she ordered, standing up and fiddling with something off to the side, and though a flood of adrenaline made him shiver, even after all these weeks of being her slave, he obeyed; when she turned back around, he was fully naked. “Come here,” she said, and he forced his body forward, eyes grown wide when he spotted what she held in her hands – a thick leather collar, which she reached out to fasten around his neck. When he swallowed, he felt the pressure of it against his Adam’s apple, and it sent more adrenaline through him. Then she had him turn around, and she tied his hands behind his back, probably mostly for show, as he had lost all hope of fighting her, then led him over to her throne and instructed him to kneel as she sat down.

The collar had a chain, which she twisted idly in her hands, and she pulled his head onto her lap; he sat there, cheek against her thigh, and she pet his hair. “Good boy.”

Just then other gnolls walked in – officials, ministers, generals, who all seated themselves cross-legged on the floor, forming a loose circle around her throne. None of them acknowledged Marius’s presence, though he could both see and feel their eyes on him, their lust, their derision, their gloating, their pity, their indifference. And while he sat there, bound and exposed, they conducted a meeting. Official court business. They talked of war and taxes and plague and diplomacy, of births and deaths and weddings, and his knees ached and his legs burned and his cock stirred slightly, but he said nothing, and dared not move a single muscle.

Was this really how he was to spend the rest of his life?

And, despite the proud Roman in him, did he really mind?